


Deal With the Devil

by Starlingthefool



Series: Devil You Know [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-05
Updated: 2010-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-08 17:37:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlingthefool/pseuds/Starlingthefool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"It was hard to maintain his composure. Holmes could hear the maddening sound of blood dripping from the table to the floor. The very air reeked of blood, a man was lying in pieces behind him, and Watson – his flatmate, his <span class="u">partner</span> – was responsible."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Deal With the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt from the Sherlock Holmes kinkmeme, which asked for a Dexter-like Watson: a murderer with both a conscience AND an insatiable hunger to kill. How does Holmes find out, and how does he react?

Holmes wondered if he was going to vomit. It was nightmarish, the sight that awaited him in the basement room. Blood, there was blood everywhere; splattered on the walls, dark pools of it on the floor. Dark clots of it decorated the medical instruments that were neatly laid out on a tray. Even after having seen many scenes of violence and depravity, he couldn't recall seeing a more horrifying sight.

"That beard looks terrible on you, you know."

Holmes whirled around. Watson stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a rough linen shirt and pair of dark trousers, both of them splattered liberally with blood. Watson was wiping his hands clean on a handkerchief, which was now mottled with red.

"It's crooked," Watson pointed out. There were flecks of blood near his ear, where he had neglected to wash them off. "And the adhesive is coming off."

Holmes spared a moment to think that he probably could have planned this confrontation better. What was the point of a disguise when one went blundering in like an amateur? He licked his lips, then peeled the beard off. No point in keeping the thing on now, and it itched his face. "I suppose I was rather distracted while putting it on."

"Yes, I know you've been preoccupied." There was a world of significance in those words. "I suppose this is why you didn't want my help with your latest case."

"Correct. And I'm not the only one who's been busy, am I?" Holmes said. He did not look back at the corpse, lying in several pieces on the doctor's table, because really, it was undignified to be so obvious. Also, the sight rather churned his stomach.

Watson nodded. He looked curiously mournful. Not sorry, per say, but saddened. "I'm sorry you had to see this, my friend."

"Not so sorry as I am," Holmes said. He pulled the pistol out of his pocket and put Watson's chest in the sights. He didn't pull the trigger, not then, though he was sorely tempted. "I almost would rather have stayed blind and ignorant."

"That means a lot to me, coming from you," Watson said, half-smiling. "Shall you tell me how you found out? I know how much you adore-"

"Shut up," Holmes hissed. It was hard to maintain his composure. Holmes could hear the maddening sound of blood dripping from the table to the floor. The very air reeked of blood, a man was lying in pieces behind him, and Watson – his flatmate, his partner – was responsible. "You tell me, Watson. How many? How long have you been doing this?"

Watson sighed. "You're upset. I knew you would be."

"Upset would be an understatement. You have been murdering people under my nose for... for–"

"The entire time we've lived together," Watson replied. "And many years before that."

Holmes swallowed. His mouth had gone dry. "How many? How many have you killed?" He himself had tracked down at least four potential victims, but had the feeling he was only scratching the surface.

"Tonight makes... fifty-six. Over the last twenty years."

Holmes' knees almost buckled.

"I wish you'd sit. You're in shock, and I'm fairly sure you haven't eaten in the last day. Nor slept for, what, three?" Watson himself slowly sat down at the small table in the room.

Holmes could feel weariness trying to snake its way into his muscles. He'd never felt so weary. His entire life had crashed down around his ears, after all. Still, for a moment he entertained the thought of stubbornly refusing to sit. His legs made the decision for him, almost independently of his brain, carrying him to the table. He pulled the chair out, far enough to still be able to use the gun should Watson make any untoward movements.

"You're a monster," Holmes said, after a long moment.

Watson didn't blink. "Yes."

"And I never knew."

"I made sure you didn't."

"I never even suspected. Not until this week." Watson's deception was diabolical. And Holmes' own ignorance – he'd lived with a monster for close to six years – was unforgivable. Lestrade had suspected Watson before Holmes, for God's sake. It was the Inspector that had – though unwittingly – given him the clues he'd needed to follow the dim trail that Watson had left.

"There were times I wanted to tell you," Watson said, looking at his hands. "Of all people, I had hoped that you... might understand. Or at least, not find me so repulsive."

"That you would think me capable of condoning such horrors is, in itself, shocking," Holmes said. "Fifty-six victims, innocent men and _women_, Watson!"

Watson blinked. "Innocent? You think them innocent?"

"Are you going to tell me they deserved to be tortured, dismembered, and have their body parts thrown into the Thames?" Holmes shouted. "That you have a rational explanation? What could they have possibly done to – _why are you smiling!?_"

"Sorry, sorry, old boy, it's just, you're rather off your ga–"

Holmes whipped the pistol across his mouth. The impact sent Watson tumbling out of his chair and onto the floor. Holmes felt justified in allowing himself to succumb to an emotional impulse under the circumstances. The rage he felt was effectively blocking out the horror of the situation.

Holmes pulled a pair of manacles out of his coat pocket, and tossed them to Watson. The man looked up. Holmes felt a twinge in the lower regions of his chest when he noted the gash across the doctor's cheek, and the fresh blood flowing down his chin. "Put those on. I'm taking you to Scotland Yard."

Watson, damn him to hell, looked up at Holmes with such an expression of betrayal that the detective felt that same twinge in his chest. He cocked the gun, gesturing to the manacles, and Watson put them on. Then he stood there, waiting. Blood was now dripping down his shirtfront, and Holmes' aching stomach did another slow turn. He holstered his gun, and grabbed Watson by the shoulder, pushing him out of that room of horrors.

"I'm sorry, Holmes. I truly never meant to hurt you," Watson said.

Holmes gave him a humorless smile. "So you said."

"And I'm sorry for this as well."

"For wh–"

There was a flash of movement, and a shooting pain in his leg. Holmes shoved Watson away from him, and heard him hit the wall. When Holmes looked down, there was a hole in his trousers. He looked up, and saw that Watson was holding a hypodermic needle in his manacled hands. It was empty. Where had it come from?

Holmes took a step, then fell in a tangle of limbs. Watson must have had the needle up his sleeve, like a damned magician.

Holmes felt hands on him, on his neck. He tried to push them away, but all strength had left his limbs. The last thing he thought he heard before the light faded from his eyes was Watson, entreating Holmes to trust him.

 

Consciousness came back slowly, in stages. He became aware of light, a pillow underneath his face, a sour taste in his mouth. Another person breathing in the room.

His last memories hit him much more quickly. His eyes snapped open, and he thrust himself into a sitting position. He immediately regretted doing so, as his head felt like it was about to split apart and his stomach tried to launch itself out his throat. He fell back onto his pillow with a piteous groan.

"You're awake then." Irene's voice. Fate had obviously not tired of torturing him yet.

"Unfortunately, yes. What are you doing here?"

"Watson–"

At the mention of the doctor's name, Holmes sat up again, not without considerable effort.

"What about him?" he said.

Irene blinked. "He wired me. Told me you'd been injured, and needed care, but he had to leave on some emergency." Her face was carefully arranged to look neutral, which meant she was actually hiding a good deal of emotion.

"That's not normally enough to make you come calling, Irene."

Irene let out a huff of air. "Let's say, he called in a favor I owed him."

She was lying. Holmes was about to demand more information on that, but Irene held out an envelope. The letters on its front spelled out his name, and the hand was undoubtedly Watson's.

"He left this for you," she said, rather redundantly.

The seal was broken. "You read it."

Irene shrugged, but he caught a faint tremor in her arm. Holmes pulled it out of her hand and drew out the letter inside.

_My dear friend –  
I cannot change what I am. You were right in calling me a monster. I always have been, from my first memories. I'm not sorry for what I am, nor what I've done. I do not regret my darker habits. I do regret, however, the pain I have caused you. It was not my intention to betray you, and I am grieved that our friendship has had to end.   
If I know you, Holmes, (and after our many adventures, feel correct in saying that I do), you will not let this go. I ask only one thing of you: look deeper into the lives of those you called my innocent victims. If you still wish to seek me out then, Holmes -- well. Then I shall at least have the pleasure of your company one more time.  
You yourself have nothing to fear from me, Holmes. You never did.   
And because I don't believe for a second that you won't read this, Irene, please make sure he doesn't kill himself or the dog._

I remain, despite what you may believe,  
Your loving friend,  
J.W.

 

Holmes caught up with him in Chicago. It took him close to three years to find the doctor, but he hadn't honestly expected Watson to leave the Continent. The thought of him in America seemed odd. And Chicago? It was more like a frontier town compared to the cities that Watson had lived and plied his particular trade in. The entire city smelled like an abbatoir. On second thought, perhaps that was what had attracted him.

"I honestly don't understand what you see in this town, Watson," he said, taking up a seat beside him at the bar, without any preamble. Watson nearly spat his drink out. It was rather gratifying, the shock on his old friend's face.

"Holmes?!"

"What could you possibly endear you to this city? It's dirty and noisy and stinks. And everyone's far too industrious and busy constructing those ridiculously tall buildings. That beard looks terrible on you, by the way. The mustache fit you much better."

Aside from the change in facial hair, and the faded scar across his cheek from Holmes' pistol, Watson looked much the same. It gave Holmes' the oddest feeling in his stomach, seeing him again, almost like vertigo.

Watson's mouth worked, but he couldn't seem to produce a single sound. Finally, he croaked out, "Can I buy you a drink?"

"I'd be obliged. Chicago leaves a bad taste in my mouth."

Watson waved down the bartender and ordered two bourbons. "I'd leave off insulting this city while you're in it, by the way. People here are rather sensitive."

Their drinks arrived, and with them, an awkward silence.

"So," Holmes said eventually. "How have you been?"

Watson shrugged. "Busy."

"...Ah. Right." Holmes took a large swallow of his bourbon.

"I'd rather not talk here," Watson said. "Not about–"

"No, that wouldn't do at all," Holmes agreed. Nor would going back to Watson's flat. "If there's a park nearby, perhaps we could take a walk."

Watson nodded, and they finished their drinks quickly. As they walked out of the bar, Holmes noticed an odd thing; despite three years of separation, they still walked perfectly in sync with each other. It was as if they'd never been apart at all.

 

"I suppose this is rather fitting," Holmes said skeptically, looking at the wrought iron gates of Graceland Cemetery.

Watson smiled. "It's the closest thing to a park you'll find in this area. And I rather like it. It's quite peaceful."

They walked along the gravel path for a while, ensconced in a mutual silence. The noise of the city – hoofbeats and cabs and trolleys and the many, many voices – dropped away. There was a refreshing breeze from the lake, and the sun shone warmly. Watson was right, this was a peaceful place.

"Well. Perhaps Chicago is not as insufferable as I thought," Holmes said.

"Don't be fooled. Places like this are few and far between. This city has a dirty, corrupt, and rotten streak." Watson sat down on a bench overlooking a pond.

"Not entirely unlike our dear London," Holmes pointed out.

"Which is why it was a good fit for a man like me."

Holmes nodded, and, after a moment, sat down next to him. There was another tense lull in the conversation.

"I'll not go to the police, Holmes," Watson said quietly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why else would you track me down to America? Why else would you be armed when you finally confronted me? And I'm telling you now, I won't turn myself in. If you want to rid the world of my presence, you can damn well do it yourself."

Holmes sighed. "Is this why you took me here? Because you wanted to look at something beautiful before you died?"

"I'm shamefully transparent, I know," Watson said grimly.

Holmes snorted. "You seem to be forgetting that you deceived me for years regarding your... proclivities."

Watson remained stubbornly silent. Holmes sighed again, then reached into his coat and pulled his pistol out of its holster. He held it in his hand a moment, then placed it carefully on the bench between them. Watson looked down at it, then up at him.

"I investigated into the histories of your victims. At least those that I could find. And I discovered a pattern. They were all... forgive me, Watson, but they were all as monstrous as yourself."

Perhaps it was just his imagination, but Holmes thought he saw a bit of the tension go out of Watson's shoulders.

"The victim with whom I caught you, the choral conductor; he seemed to enjoy preying on the younger members of his choir, didn't he? Miss Margaret Adams, the nanny, had smothered at least one child to death, and possibly others. Lord Thatcher had a history of hiring whores, most of whom were never seen alive again. Joseph Todd, the tenement owner, burned down an occupied building for the insurance. And the list goes on." And on and on and on, Holmes thought, a sickening recitation of various sins and horrors. The stuff of nightmares.

"I tried to tell you," Watson said. "That night you found me. But you weren't in the mood to hear it, I suppose."

"No. I was rather upset, as you recall."

"Yes, I have the scar on my cheek to remind me."

Holmes shrugged, slightly embarrassed. "Indeed. So where does this leave you? You are a monster with a conscience. Who follows a code of conduct, unlikely as that is."

"I told you, I cannot change my nature. It is my nature to kill," Watson said plainly. His tone was mild. He might have been talking about some kind of minor but persistent ailment; seasonal allergies, perhaps. "It is what I do."

"And you enjoy it," Holmes said.

A sigh. Then softly, the words like a caress: "Oh _yes._"

Holmes suppressed a shiver, clearing his throat. He shifted in his seat, wondering for a moment if his plan was doomed to some terrible end. Memories came to him, Watson studiously cleaning the blood off of his hands, the neatly arranged tray of blood spattered scalpels, the body of the choral conductor flayed open.

Ah well. At least he would go into it with his eyes open, this time.

"I have a proposal for you," Holmes said. He met Watson's eyes. "Come back to London with me. There you can –" he hesitated, "-ply your trade, and I shall ply mine. And perhaps, we can be of assistance to each other."

After a lengthy pause, Watson asked, "Assist each other how?"

Holmes picked up his gun, considering it. "You said that it was your nature to kill. Like a finely made weapon, that's what you are for and what you do. I, however, am the better marksman."

Watson gave him a familiar look of frustration. Holmes hadn't realized that he'd missed being the origin of Watson's irritation until then. "For God's sake, Holmes," Watson said. "Leave off the bloody metaphors and get to the point."

Holmes holstered his gun, annoyed. "I see America has robbed you of your appreciation for language, Watson. In layman's terms: I shall find you targets and help you cover your tracks. You shall not kill anyone without my prior investigation. If you lie to me about this, I'll find out. And that will be the end of you." The end of both of them, probably, but Holmes saw no need to say this. But he was not sure he wanted to survive another betrayal by the only man he considered a friend.

Holmes risked a look at Watson. The doctor was staring at him, mouth open in shock. "You would do such a thing for me?"

Holmes shifted again. "I don't object to the results, exactly. I just find your methods to be rather perturbing."

Watson grinned then. "My god, Holmes, but I've missed you."

Holmes allowed himself a small smile, and allowed himself a small amount of hope. Perhaps not all deals with devils had to go rotten.


End file.
